


Lathbora Viran

by reellifejaneway



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition, dragon - Fandom
Genre: Aging, Assassination, Character Death, F/M, Fire, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Lyrium Withdrawal, Memory Loss, Post-Loss, Triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-15
Updated: 2015-10-15
Packaged: 2018-04-26 11:58:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5003977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reellifejaneway/pseuds/reellifejaneway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Years have clouded his eyes, but somewhere buried in his mind, Cullen still sees it all. The pain of loss never truly fades – not even when the cursed lyrium finally robs you of your memories. Written as a post-Trespasser conclusion to their love story, Cullen Rutherford and Arida Lavellan part and unite one last time…</p><p>Cullen Rutherford and the world of Thedas belong to (we all know who) Bioware. Arida Lavellan in all her awkward glory belongs to me. I’m just a fangirl who can’t let go...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lathbora Viran

**Author's Note:**

> Be warned, this fic is angsty. Come armed with tissues – and maybe a pillow to scream into? I apologise for nothing. When I said “nobody kills my inquisitor but me”, Bioware, I meant it. If you cried, send me a comment so I know I’m not alone!

A whisper of wind danced across her bare shoulders, sending shivers up her spine and dragging her slowly back to consciousness. Night had long since crept across the Ferelden countryside. Her children were fast asleep in their rooms on the other side of the manor house she had come to call home. Cullen had gone to bid them goodnight before returning to his office and attending to the last of his paperwork. Lavellan had fallen asleep hours ago, reading a book and patiently awaiting her husband’s presence. But when the candle had burnt down, when the gentle lull of sleep had finally been too much to resist, she had conceded defeat. Slumber had claimed her for a time. But now a breath of cold night air stirred against her, and she couldn’t ignore the chill.

Odd. She couldn’t recall opening the balcony doors.

Arida sighed and pushed herself up on her elbows, blinking against the fog of sleep. Staring out across her bedroom, her dimly-glowing blue eyes searched through the darkness for any sign of movement. Her weak night-vision genes failed her, but her ears pricked. Footsteps sounded on the other side of the room.

Gently sweeping loose strands of auburn hair behind her ear, Arida called out softly, “Cullen? Come to bed.”

She paused, awaiting the familiar chuckle, the familiar growl of that voice she had come to know almost as well as her own.

But instead, there was only a cold, stony silence.

“Cullen?” Arida repeated, her eyes finally settling on a dark figure standing near her the foot of her bed. “What are you doing? Come join me.”

The silhouette didn’t move. But now, it replied.

“I think I will,” a rasping voice slurred, “after all, I cannot deny you one _last request_.”

Arida’s brows arched in terror, her hand instinctively diving under the covers for her dagger. But before she could reach it, the mattress behind her shifted and a thick leather glove clamped down on her mouth. She fought back, a strangled scream tearing from her throat, muffled by the constricting palm. All rational thought fled from her mind. That dark figure shifted over her, trapping her beneath her sheets and now, drew his own dagger.

The sound of a sharpened blade scraping against its sheath made tears prick at Arida’s eyes.

She couldn’t move. She could barely breathe. Nobody seemed to know that there was an intruder - and now? She couldn’t even run.

_I_ _’m so sorry, ma’vhenan._

* * *

 

Cullen rubbed his eyes and pushed the office door shut behind him. The cool night wind tugged at his cloak, the fur-lined mantle the only protection against the elements as he began the long trek across the courtyard.

Their manor was not as imposing as Skyhold had been. Nor did it have the grand bulwarks on all sides. But it did have an elegant stone tower at either end of the wings, and a beautiful garden between. It was a walk from his study to the bedroom he shared with his wife but it gave him time to set aside the worries of the day, the stress he still tended to carry with him long after the mantle of ‘Commander’ had been set aside.

A smile danced at the corner of his mouth. He was remembering reading to his children. His twin sons had been sitting up in their shared bed, their bright blue eyes sparkling in excitement as he had recited the tale of “the Champion and the Arishok”, in suitably worded terms of course. Cullen had wanted to laugh at the enthusiastic shouts from the boys. His own embellishments to Varric’s famous tale were earning him numerous cries of “that’s not what happened!” and “run, Hawke, run!” – until his eldest daughter finally spoke up:

“But Da, Hawke told me she didn’t _trip_. She was bluffing.”

That had sparked a lively debate that only ended when Cullen declared a truce, tucking the boys beneath their blankets and pressing a soft kiss against their unruly golden locks. Their older sister had gone to sleep with much less fuss, offering him a sweet smile so much like her mother’s that it made Cullen’s heart clench in his chest.

Hours later, manor had fallen into a peaceful slumber. The night watch paced the wall, a few men saluting the Commander as he passed. They had offered to stay on after the Inquisition dissolved; to provide their young family with security. And it was a blessed relief — the guards knew the risks; the threats. And more than that, they knew his routine.

Cullen was a creature of habit and tonight, much to his disdain, signing the property’s paperwork had taken him longer than usual. He couldn’t help but wonder if Arida had sat up waiting for him. She often did now that the children were old enough to sleep in other quarters. A flash of her face — that familiar twist of her soft lips and loving, shining blue eyes — was enough to make him weak at the knees. Even after ten years, his Inquisitor was still the only woman to hold his heart.

Cullen turned and began to descend the stairs. Across the courtyard, candlelight still shone from within the tower itself. It was so perfectly serene, he mused, following that well-worn path he’d come to memorise even in the dark. For it was the path that led him to her.

His mind drifted back to the night before. Arida had watched from the doorway of his office as he’d finished the last of his work, her hair glowing faintly red in the candlelight. How he loved her! She looked angelic even now, her face still as beautiful and ageless as the day they had first met. Perhaps it was his memory, Cullen reasoned. Or perhaps it was thanks to her elvhen blood. But regardless, Arida was striking to behold. She had climbed into his lap, laughing about ‘distractions’ and he’d blushed as fiercely as the first time they’d kissed. Though she would never admit it, she still struggled with the buttons on his tunic. She was still painfully conscious of her lost limb. But when they made love, it was even better than before.

Cullen paused across the way from the kitchens, smiling at the memory. And, as his eyes drifted toward Arida’s balcony, he wondered whether she lay awake, thinking of him the same way he was imagining her now…

A cool breeze fluttered against his neck as his gaze hesitated and sharpened. His focus was blurry after writing for so long, and yet — Cullen could have sworn he saw a light spark behind those stained glass doors. A shadow moved and then the glow began to intensify.

His gut twisted. Surely Arida wasn’t lighting so many candles so late at night? He was certain the hearth didn’t burn that bright either…

Then, the doors to the tower room were flung open.

A figure in black raced forward, leaping straight over the balcony and falling…

“No…”

Fear lanced through him when immediately after, a ball of fire erupted from behind the glass. The explosion was so fierce that the ground beneath him shook.

Cullen couldn’t tear his eyes away, couldn’t breathe, could hardly comprehend what he was seeing.

Surely this was a nightmare.

But as smoke billowed into the night sky, and the night guard bellowed “ _fire!_ ” behind him, Cullen’s body stirred into action. His feet ached at the sheer speed with which he launched himself across the keep. A scream cut through the air around him — unrecognisable, tortured, betrayed. His own voice echoed in his ears, resonating off the stone and resounding in every wrenching sound that the blaze was creating in the tower high above.

 _No, that couldn_ _’t have been Arida_ , he reasoned, storming up the stairs and flinging himself into the darkened foyer. _She wouldn_ _’t have leaped like that. She wouldn’t have run…_

Which only left one other option.

Arida had to be still up there!

Smoke was already filling the hall. The staff had awoken; a bell was ringing in the courtyard and the inhabitants of the house were rushing to act. Cullen vaguely heard somebody shout for water; somewhere beyond that he heard the water pumps in the garden being put into use. But he knew in his heart it wasn’t enough.

 _Arida_ …

His legs didn’t slow; he took the stairs two at a time. The closer he got to the tower, the hotter it became. He fought the urge to gag as the vile stench of an accelerant filled his nostrils.

 _This was an assassination_.

He knew as much; Leliana had warned him someday this might happen. But wasn’t that why she had stationed her guards here? So that a potential assassin might be stopped? The only way they could have succeeded was if they were already here, posing as one of their own. And yet, that’s exactly what the Qunari — and Solas — had done ten years ago.

Cullen’s gut lurched.

“Arida!” He rounded the balustrade and nearly doubled over at the roiling torrent of heat that washed over him. It was overwhelming, searing. His lungs ached simply for breathing.

_Can_ _’t… give up._

He forced himself up and stumbled blind toward the bedroom door. “ _Arida!_ ”

But Cullen stopped short. The fire beyond cast an eerie glow around the door frame, illuminating the cracks. He knew better than to raise his hand to it bare. But he couldn’t walk away. She was in there. And if he was trapped out here, then the chances were she was just as terrified, struggling to find a way out.

“Arida can you hear me?” His voice were already becoming hoarse, his throat burning on fumes.

Swiping the backs of his hands over his tearing eyes, Cullen shrugged his fur cloak off and wrapped it across his shoulder and face protectively. Then he took a step back — bracing himself — and hurled his full weight at the door.

The hinges gave out a despairing screech but didn’t budge.

He tried again. And again. Until finally the compromised wood splintered beneath his force and flew back with a shudder. Flames erupted before his eyes. Smoke poured out of the burning room and curled across the ceiling, sparks spiralling and catching behind an insidious cloak of gas.

Cullen heard somebody shouting from the general direction of the stairs, pleading for him to come back, that it was suicide to go in there.

He didn’t want to listen.

They’d fought the odds together, he and Arida. Side by side for _years_. And he wasn’t about to abandon her now.

Cullen pulled his mantle higher over his body and stepped into the burning chamber.

Debris was strewn across the floor: fallen roof beams and shattered furniture alike burned and hemmed him in against the wall. They formed a wall that was too high to leap across; too furious to risk crawling under. Flames arced and snarled at his skin. Some even caught on the edge of his cloak. He coughed, pressing on, determined not to leave without her. His mind flashed back to Adamant — that night of fire had been forever seared into his memory.

He had almost lost her then. Cullen refused to lose her now.

“Arida! Answer me!”

The smoke eased, a breeze parting the murk for a moment. But a moment was all he needed. He could see her, see the bed in the centre of the room, almost unscathed.

 _Oh Maker no._ She wasn’t moving.

“ARIDA!”

His scream was hoarse; unnatural. But it reached her. For Arida lifted her head, her eyes red and face stained with tears and ash.

And something more.

Cullen’s heart wrenched at the ugly stain that was creeping across her skin, her nightgown, smearing at her beautiful scarred cheek.

“I’m coming for you!” He bellowed, eyes wild as he spun side to side, searching desperately for something to push the debris aside.

Common sense might have told him to stop, to flee while he still could. But he had long since stopped paying heed to that. All Cullen knew now was that desperate instinct, that voice that screamed for her over and over…

His eyes searched her out again. “Arida hang on!”

She was staring straight at him, her lips opening as she called to him. But her voice was so faint. It was barely a whisper against the roar of the inferno. So instead she reached, her slender hand shaking violently with the sheer effort it took to stretch…

“ _Ma_ _’vhenan…”_

Cullen scrambled to grasp an unlit piece of frame, attempting to use it to shift one of the rafters. “Don’t you give up on me!”

Stumbling, blinded, Cullen’s attentions turned upward when a chilling groan sounded. High above, the roof was engulfed. The flames rushed across the wooden beams like waves of a ravenous ocean reclaiming the shore. It was a horrific sight. The rafters creaked and buckled.

 _“NO!”_ He worked furiously, ignoring the sweat that rolled off him. “Arida, come on! You need to move!”

She tried. Her hand moved to brace beneath her and she managed to pull herself forward a few inches before collapsing. She couldn’t, Cullen realised. The bleeding was worse than he’d thought. It trailed after her, smearing across everything she touched.

She was already too far gone.

Throwing aside his ‘crowbar’, Cullen kicked at the beam desperately. A second howl sounded from the roof; he ignored it. His lungs screamed for mercy; but he had none for himself. The only thing he cared about was his Lavellan – trapped, _dying_ , just meters away.

If he couldn’t save her, then he would die with her.

A chilling crack marked the end. The roof groaned, buckled, and began to cave — just as a pair of strong hands grasped Cullen’s cloak and tugged hard. He screamed in anguish, falling back just in time for a rain of debris to come crashing down in front of his eyes.

Cullen vaguely remembered being dragged down the stairs by several men, his voice broken as he screamed her name at the walls. They had stomped out the embers in his cloak then tried to wrap it around him; laid him down on the soft grass of the garden Arida’s care had fostered. He had nothing left. Weak, shaking, gasping and coughing, Cullen had stared into the sky, watching as the smoke rose high to block out the stars one by one…

“Arida... Oh Maker no... Arida, Arida my heart...” His tears fell and mingled with ash, with mud. And he let them, each shuddering cry wringing from his weak chest until it was all he could do to breathe.

He no longer noticed the people who tried to soothe him, the cries of the children who were being kept away by the terrified maids. He couldn’t bring himself to care. His home was burning, and with it, the woman who he had sworn to stand by every day of his life.

The last thing he had seen — all he would remember for weeks to come — was a pair of bright azure eyes pleading with his, a beautiful face contorted in agonised longing. She had been calling to him. And now, somehow, he could hear her voice. Cullen could almost taste the tears on Arida’s lips, her dying gasp sealing the words forever against his blistered, scarred skin.

_Abelas, ma_ _’sal’shiral… Abelas…_

* * *

 

“Arida!”

He jolted awake with a pained shout, eyes straining in the dark. Pain lanced through Cullen’s chest and for a moment he struggled to breathe against the onslaught. But then the moment passed. And now he realised that he was not lying in a ruined garden, choking on acrid smoke, but in his bed.

Had it all been a nightmare?

A light flared to his right, the door creaking open and immediately he was on his guard. But his instincts, despite his retirement, had never truly waned. Nor had his warrior’s reflexes lost their potency. He moved to intercept the intruder — only his legs, inexplicably weakened and twisted in sweaty sheets, gave out and sent him toppling heavily to the floor.

“Cullen! What on earth—”

A sweet voice reached his ears, a gentle hand reaching down to clasp his.

“You could have hurt yourself.”

“I…” He sucked in another breath, struggling to calm his breathing. He knew this voice. _His beloved._ “I thought you needed me. That you were in danger.”

The small figure of a woman before him chuckled quietly, “Well as you can see I’m quite alright. You, however, are not. You were screaming in your sleep.”

She began to guide him back to bed and Cullen blinked in confusion. “I was?”

“Do you not remember?”

“I remember in the dream that I lost you.” He felt the familiar give of the mattress beneath him, his rough palms settling on smooth linen. “I couldn’t bear it.”

The woman smoothed his forehead gently, her small palm beautifully soft against his clammy skin. Then she reached for the lamp. As the flame burned hotter, Cullen’s eyes widened. She seemed distressed. Were her shoulders _shaking_?

“Arida? What’s wrong, _ma_ _’vhenan_?” He reached out to her—

—Only now the flame illuminated her face.

“You’re… You’re not my wife,” he stammered. Disbelief rocked him and he reeled back, eyes wide in fear. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

The woman’s eyes were downcast, misery tinting her words: “You don’t remember me, do you?”

“I…” Cullen suddenly felt breathless, lost.

He stared at her for several long moments. Searching his memory felt much more strenuous than it should. Surely remembering a single face shouldn’t prove so difficult! He once knew every face in Skyhold, every name of his officers. Images of strolling along a fortress wall, a heavy cloak on his shoulders and hand resting on the hilt of his sword; training new recruits in the ring; sparring with… with _her._

 _Arida Lavellan_.

Lithe, elegant, beautiful. She had been power bound in sinuous muscle, a tiny rogue wreathed in flame and smoke. And how he had loved to watch her dance. Her dragonstone daggers had been mere flashes of gold in a whirlwind of death…

_My wife._

They had married in Orlais, a secret wedding. _That_ _’s right,_ he realised, _we said our vows in the garden_. She had been so radiant, those brilliant azure eyes smiling as honestly as her lips. He remembered her hands trembling in his.

And _pain_. Her eyes filled with tears later as the surgeons had worked to stop the bleeding from her arm — the arm that she had sacrificed in one last effort to save them all…

He had held that precious hand again and again.

_“Don’t you dare let go of me, Cullen Rutherford,” Arida whispered heatedly._

_“I’m right here.” He’d smoothed her hair away from her forehead, pressing a kiss to her vallaslin tenderly. “We’ll make it through this together. I promise.”_

_“Together? Then it must be your turn to push—”_

_A scream ripped from her throat and she bore down, the contraction passing. Arida had sucked in breaths, sinking back against the pillows weakly. He_ _’d pressed a cool cloth to her forehead._

_“This baby had better not have my chin,” she growled, panting._

Cullen came back to himself with a laugh.

And suddenly his eyes shot to the woman still standing before him.

It hit him like a wave: The sweet almond curve of her eyes, the gentle point on the tip of her otherwise human ears. Her full lips looked so much like Arida’s that Cullen struggled to find a difference. Her chin, much to her mother’s dismay, was strikingly alike too. Except she had a mane of beautiful curls, brilliant gold like his, tinted auburn like her mother’s. Gilded, curling strands of copper. Freckles, eyes of brilliant blue flecked with rust. She was so much like them both… their daughter.

 _His_ daughter.

“Moriah?”

Her strength wavered then, her chin trembling in defiance against the wave of emotion that threatened to drown her. “It’s me.”

He sighed in awe and reached out, pulled her into his arms. “I… how did I not remember? How can I not know you?” Cullen stroked her hair gently.

“You have been sick, Da. So very sick.”

“I dreamed — I remember it all.”

“I know.”

She held him close for a long time, the silence a precious gift that said more than their words ever could. Finally, Moriah drew back, her eyes brimming with tears.

“Da, I… I can’t stop it. The fading. It comes and goes.” She shook her head. “I’ve tried so many things, so many recipes and potions but I can’t…”

“Shh.” Cullen gently cupped her cheek. “Don’t try to stop it.”

Moriah hung her head and sobbed, “I don’t want to lose you again.”

Memories resurfaced — images of a small girl with unruly braids curling into his side, crying late into the night. He had been her anchor. And she had been his. But he had known years ago that this was coming. It had started in fragments, little pieces of information, names, dates, all slipping away. Then it had become conversations and events. And finally, his family. His sons had left. But Moriah? She had stayed.

“You didn’t lose me,” he told her gently, and kissed her forehead. “I’ve always been—”

A seizure gripped him, coughing overwhelming his ability to speak. Moriah’s arms held him. Those hands, so like her mother’s, soothed him until the wracking fit passed. Limp, he sagged against her.

Cullen could no longer deny the weakness in his bones, the pain that came with just trying to breathe. It was draining. The realisation was both a condemnation and a relief: this was a war he could not win.

Seconds ran into minutes, minutes merging with hours until Cullen could no longer tell whether it was night or morning. Somehow he had been tucked into bed. He could feel a pillow being eased beneath him, making the pain a fraction more bearable. A kiss pressed to his cheek, words of comfort whispered upon leaving, the faint sound of a door creaking as it closed.

“Cullen.”

The faint fragrance of embrium flowers filled his senses with a tantalising spice.

“Cullen _ma_ _’vhenan_.”

“Moriah?” He struggled to open his eyes, but he was too weak. Far too weak.

“No, _ma_ _’vhenan._ ” A gentle caress, a familiar finger trailing across his jaw. “It is time, _ma_ _’sal’shiral.”_

_Come with me._

* * *

 

Morning’s light filtered through open curtains, lace sending patterns dancing across her skin. She stirred and murmured as the last of her dreams faded. But it was the clatter of hooves above the birdsong that roused her from her bed.

Reaching for a white robe, she padded softly down the stairs to the foyer. The stone floor beneath her feet was cold but she paid it little heed. Her heart was empty. She could not afford to focus on her own pain, not when others needed her.

_One in particular._

Moriah ran a hand through her wild cinnamon curls, casting a glance back upstairs. She knew who was coming and why. She had sent a letter not a week past asking for their presence. Sure enough, her answer had been swift — but then, Moriah expected no less from the Divine.

She took a steadying breath and reached for the door handle.

The carriage had already pulled to a halt. Even as Moriah stepped out into the golden warmth of sunrise, her guest had alighted and was rushing to greet her, white skirts gathered up in one hand.

“Moriah Rutherford! Maker, look how you’ve grown.” Divine Victoria smiled down at her warmly before clasping her in a tight embrace. “To think it has been ten years since we last met.”

“I had hoped we would reunite under better circumstances,” Moriah confessed.

Cassandra’s deep brown eyes softened. “How is he?”

“I fear he does not have much time. Last night he had another nightmare—but this time he…” The younger woman’s voice trailed off, her pale hand trembling. “He called for _her_.”

“What? But that… That’s impossible.” The Divine’s cheeks paled at the implications. “Take me to him. Quickly.”

Moriah nodded and turned to lead her back into the house. Treading back up the curved stairs, she added, “I must warn you: he has been very ill these past few months.”

“Your letter mentioned as much,” Cassandra returned softly. “I also know that you are a skilled healer. If anyone could care for Cullen, it is you.”

“Even I do not have the power to ease his suffering now. I fear my father’s time with us is short.” Moriah paused on the landing and laid her hand upon a gilded doorknob. “He remembers no-one. Not even me.”

The Divine let her head fall forward, almost in defeat. “The lyrium…?”

“It robbed him of everything; he barely knows himself even on the best of days. But last night…” She shook her head, those loose curls bouncing about her shoulders with the movement, “Last night he was screaming for her like he did _that_ night, Cassandra. He was back there. I know it.”

“Did he recognise you when he woke—?”

Moriah’s eyes shone with unshed tears as she nodded. “He even touched my cheek like he did when I was a child.” She took a shaky breath and opened the door. “He may still be sleeping, allow me a moment to wake him first.”

Victoria nodded in acknowledgement and Moriah stepped into the silent bedchamber.

Across the way, the open balcony doors let in a stream of glorious light. The sheer curtains danced upon the morning breeze and Moriah shivered. Gathering a glass and a jug from the sideboard, she poured some water for her patient. Then she stepped across the threshold toward the simple bed in the centre of the room. The wooden poster bed was shrouded in a light canopy and now she reached out to push it aside.

“Cullen?” Her voice was gentle, a soothing note even as she made herself use her father’s name in fear of startling or confusing him. “Cullen, it is morning. Here I brought you some—”

Then her eyes fell.

A wordless shriek tore from her lips as the cup slipped, tumbled. Water splashed against her bare feet. A musical explosion of glass sounded, fragments skipping across the floor unnoticed.

The door behind her slammed open hurriedly. A reassuring hand flew to her shoulder, the faint rustle of silk marking the Divine’s entrance. “Moriah, what is—”

But Cassandra needed no explanation. The truth was markedly plain.

Moriah sank down onto the bed in shock, one hand covering her mouth as a terrified sob escaped her. “No… No, he can’t be…”

For the man who lay in bed — a mortal shadow of himself — now smiled in his rest. Cullen’s eyes were open, staring toward the open doors as though he was waiting for somebody to pass through them. A face that was lined with years of grief now shone with a youthful exuberance; once-hollow cheeks full and ageless. It was almost as though his younger self had been restored to him, and with it, the memories of joyous years. The light illuminated curly hair that shimmered with lines of silver, bathed and renewed in glorious shades of gold. Cassandra could almost allow herself to believe that he was still the rugged lion-hearted warrior she had met all those years ago in Kirkwall.

But his amber eyes, once sparkling with life, had since darkened — his lips parted on a final breath long departed. One hand was resting across his chest. No movement made it rise and fall. The other arm lay outstretched upon the bed, his palm upturned to reveal the ink lines that had been inscribed upon his skin so many years before. Even after his memories had faded, those Elvhen symbols had remained. The vallaslin he had been given on his wedding day: the promise of a bond that could not be so easily broken, not even by death.

And now it was painfully clear: his life had left him as he had reached toward the doorway, almost as if to clasp the outstretched hand of another…

“Oh Maker guide his soul,” Cassandra breathed, kneeling at his bedside.

A breath of cool wind danced against her neck and Moriah gave into the tears that stung at her eyes. She collapsed upon the pillow, fingers clutching at Cullen’s arm and burying her face in the sleeve of his tunic. “He can’t be gone! Da please, please wake up! Please…”

Divine Victoria felt it then, the embrace of a cool breeze like familiar arms clasping her shoulder. And a whisper:

_“Ma’vhenan…”_

Lifting her eyes she gasped quietly — for standing on the balcony were two figures of light, barely perceptible against the sunrise. The taller of the two seemed to be clad in a fur mantle, a sword clasped ever at the ready at his side. And holding his arm with hers, a delicate elf seemed to nod to Cassandra in greeting. Then together they turned to walk into the sun.

And somehow she _knew_.

Through the pain, Cassandra managed a smile: at last, Cullen had been reunited with his heart. His darling Lavellan.

Arida had come to take him home.

**Author's Note:**

> Lathbora viran: roughly, 'the path to a place of lost love', or a longing for a thing one cannot truly know [translation via dragon age wiki]  
> Ma'vhenan: 'my heart'  
> Abelas, ma'sal'shiral: 'I'm sorry, the love of my life' (ma'sal'shiral can also be translated as 'you are my soul's journey') [via fenxshiral on Tumblr]
> 
> To all my readers: Thank you for surviving to the end! This is not the last time I'll write for these two sweethearts, I promise. And please feel free to look me up on [Tumblr](http://reellifejaneway2.tumblr.com/) and tell me how dreadfully cruel I am. XD


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